


Mischief. Mayhem. Soap.

by gaialux



Category: Fight Club (1999), Supernatural
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 04:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8272210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaialux/pseuds/gaialux
Summary: When John disappears, Dean goes looking for Sam. It goes nothing like he expected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for spn-cinema. A few lines of dialogue taken from the Fight Club film/book. Somewhat experimental in style.

"Sorry, we have no Sam Winchester in our files."  
  
"Check again."  
  
"Sorry, agent, I--"  
  
Dean's hands clench into the desk the receptionist is sitting behind, glasses perched at the end of her button nose and blonde hair curling as it brushes her shoulders. She's tapping on a computer, hardly looking at him even as she speaks. She doesn't care that he's FBI. She doesn't care that he's looking for Sam.  
  
"There is a Sam Winchester enrolled at Stanford. I want you to tell me where I can find him."  
  
Dean watches his knuckles turn white as she starts tapping at the keyboard again. Then they're turning red, white again. Holding steadfast and not letting go until he gets his answers. Sam Winchester, aged 22. Living in Palo Alto, California after he ran away from home in the night. Son of John and Mary Winchester. Brother of Dean Winchester. Law student. Hunter.  
  
"Agent, there's nothing. I--"  
  
"Listen to me." Dean's voice is lethal, hissed from between gritted teeth. He moves closer to the woman, right up in her face. She shrinks back. "You're going to find him."  
  
Retrospectively, he shouldn't have been so stupid. He was in the reception of a college, which would have security on par with an airport of Las Vegas casino. The mega casinos in Vegas having more security than an international airport. That's priorities for you. Priorities that lead two beefy guys to walk into the room, take one look at Dean, and insist on seeing his ID.  
  
Retrospectively, he should have put more work into making the card this time around.  
  
Not so retrospectively, he's being escorted out of Stanford University with no lead on where his brother is.  
  
Maybe somewhat retrospectively, that's the whole point of this story.  
  
\--  
  
Dean's sitting in a motel room. There's a bottle of gin in his hand, top twenty hits on the radio, and a Lifetime moving playing on the grainy television set he's not looking at. What he's looking at is his hands, silver ring glistening when the grainy light hits it or fading dull when it's just more of the black darkness surrounding everything else.  
  
"They're going to find me."  
  
Dropping his hands, the bottle, Dean's eyes shoot up to the side of his bed where Sam is now sitting. His bangs have grown out, floppy over his eyes, and he's got a smile spread over his face. Dean freezes, can't move, and it's Sam who has to close some more of the distance. And he just keeps fucking smiling. Dean wants to sock him in the jaw. But only after he asks why he's here. Why he's sitting on a motel bed that Dean checked into only an hour ago. They haven't seen each other in two years.  
  
"I'm here because you need me to be."  
  
Dean's got no idea what that means.  
  
"Think about it."  
  
"Think about what?" Dean's hands are clenching again, this time into fists. The spilled gin is soaking into his socks.  
  
"Why are you here?" asks Sam. Dean thinks that question should be his, only his, because Sam's the one that randomly appeared on the bed and isn't saying why.  
  
It's like Dean's mouth insists on talking and his brain has disappeared. "Dad's missing."  
  
"I'm sure he'll come back." The smile on Sam's face is unwavering. Unnatural.  
  
"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks again. His grin somehow grows wider and Dean is going to punch him. Right in the jaw. Then in the eye. Force him to talk, to spill.  
  
"I was looking for you." His voice is hard. Edged. He doesn't even recognise it as his own. "Where the fuck are you living, Sam? Was Stanford some kind of rouse?"  
  
"I never lie to you, Dean," says Sam. "Not when you listen."  
  
"What are you--"  
  
Sam kisses him. Hard and fast and desperate. Teeth clinging to his lower lip and ripping through. Blood. Acid, copper, _wrong, wrong, wrong._  
  
Yet Dean clings for more. "Sam," he whispers. "Sammy, Sammy, Sam."  
  
" _Dean_." It's not a moan like Dean's words; it's a lethal phrase that shakes Dean into the moment. " _Think_ , Dean. Think fucking hard."  
  
"About--"  
  
Sam's hand digs into Dean's thigh. It brings him to life with heat and arousal. "You can see me and hear me--"  
  
"Of course I can!"  
  
"--but no one else can."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Dean searches Sam's face. It's unmoving, unchanging. Robotic and set. Dean shudders.  
  
"Follow me."  
  
Sam takes Dean's hand and they're in the motel carpark. A family walks by. Mom, Dad, little Johnny. Sam waves. Sam yells "hi". Sam turns back to Dean.  
  
"What--" Dean's voice cracks. They're back on the motel bed. Dean can't breathe.  
  
Sam drops to his knees in front of Dean. "You and I," he says. His hand traces the outline of Dean's cock through his jeans. "We happen to share the same body."  
  
Dean's stomach lurches. His cock thickens.  
  
"It's okay," Sam says. His long fingers make quick work of Dean's belt. "We're okay. A little codependent, sure, but..."  
  
Sam shrugs. Makes like he's forgotten the entire conversation and leans down onto Dean's cock. It's gone down his throat in the blink of an eye. Dean bites his lip, tastes blood and tears and confusion all swirled into one.  
  
"What does that mean?" He says. His hands twist into his baby brother's hair. "Sammy. Sam, _please_."  
  
Sam pulls off with a heavy _pop_. He continues to stroke. "What, Dean? Tell me what you want."  
  
Dean's brain is gone. Sam's doing all the thinking. Sam who's...him.  
  
"Yeah, Dean," Sam murmurs. "Now you're catching on."  
  
"You can read my mind?"  
  
" _Our_ mind."  
  
Sam drops back to Dean's cock. Dean's head throws back and everything feels like fire. He can feel the skin of Sam's cock, the taste, the way it hardens as he sucks and squeezes down the base.  
  
"Sam," he stutters out. "Fuck, _Sam_."  
  
He can taste the cum run down his throat, and Sam keeps sucking. Every last drop until Dean's writhing, begging to stop and keep going all in one. Sam's kiss is salty-sweet and Dean clings. "Sam," he's whispering between lip touches. "Don't you dare leave."  
  
Sam breaks away to give a grin that splits through the dusk and swims to his eyes. "Don't think that's possible, brother."


End file.
